Read The Purple Decades Online
Authors: Tom Wolfe
The Purple Decades (41 page)
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Back on the
Coral Sea
Dowd and Flint were debriefed in the ready room. They drank coffee and tried to warm up. The china had a certain dignity. It was white with bands of blue about the rims and blue crests here and there. The silverwareânow, that was rather nice. It was ornamental and heavy. The questions came, one after the other, and they went through everything that happened. Yet during this debriefing the two men were waiting for
something
else. Surely, they would mention
something else
. But they didn't. It was a debriefing much like
every
debriefing. Just the facts! No quarter given! No slack in the line! Then the commander of their squadron said, with a note of accusation: “Why were you flying so low?”
Coral Sea
Dowd and Flint were debriefed in the ready room. They drank coffee and tried to warm up. The china had a certain dignity. It was white with bands of blue about the rims and blue crests here and there. The silverwareânow, that was rather nice. It was ornamental and heavy. The questions came, one after the other, and they went through everything that happened. Yet during this debriefing the two men were waiting for
something
else. Surely, they would mention
something else
. But they didn't. It was a debriefing much like
every
debriefing. Just the facts! No quarter given! No slack in the line! Then the commander of their squadron said, with a note of accusation: “Why were you flying so low?”
Now, that was really too much! Why ⦠you
bastard!
But they said nothing except the usual. What they wanted to say ⦠well, how could they have put it into words? How, within the inner room, does one say: “My God, man, we've just been into the Jaws!âabout as far into the goddamned Jaws as you can go and still come back again!âand you want to know why we flew so low! We've just been
there!
at the lost end of the equation! where it drops off the end of the known world! Ask us about â¦
the last things
, you bastard, and we will enlighten you!” There were no words in the chivalric code for such thoughts, however.
bastard!
But they said nothing except the usual. What they wanted to say ⦠well, how could they have put it into words? How, within the inner room, does one say: “My God, man, we've just been into the Jaws!âabout as far into the goddamned Jaws as you can go and still come back again!âand you want to know why we flew so low! We've just been
there!
at the lost end of the equation! where it drops off the end of the known world! Ask us about â¦
the last things
, you bastard, and we will enlighten you!” There were no words in the chivalric code for such thoughts, however.
But all at once the skipper of the
Coral Sea,
the maximum leader,
a former combat pilot himself, appearedâand he smiled! And that smile was like an emission of radio waves.
Coral Sea,
the maximum leader,
a former combat pilot himself, appearedâand he smiled! And that smile was like an emission of radio waves.
“We're glad to have you back, men.”
That was all he said. But he smiled again! Such ethereal waves! Invisible but comprehensible, they said, “I know. I've been there myself.” Just that!ânot a sound!âand yet a doxology for all the unspoken things. How full my heart, O Lord!
Flint took one day off before going out on his next mission, on New Year's Eve. Dowd had suffered a back injury in the ejection from the F-
4
B, and so it was another two days before he climbed back into the metal slingshot, got slung off the skillet, and went flying over North Vietnam again.
4
B, and so it was another two days before he climbed back into the metal slingshot, got slung off the skillet, and went flying over North Vietnam again.
The Lord's Work
“ ⦠and his lord answered and said unto the servant who had buried his talent, his piece of gold, in the ground: âThou
wicked
and
slothful ser
vant! Thou
knw
est that I reap where I sowed not and gather where I have not strewed. Thou oughtest therefore to have put my money to the exchangers, and then at my coming I should have received my
own
â¦
with interest!
' Now, friends, if you've got your money lying around in a passbook savings account down at the bank â¦
you
⦠are like that
wicked ser
vant!
You
⦠have got your
gold ⦠stuck
in the
ground!
Wouldn't you rather be able to answer, in the Final Hour, when the Last Questions are asked: âOh, yes, Lord! I took
my gold
â¦
out
of the passbook savings account! I put
my gold
⦠into the Gospel Money Market Fund! Fourteen-point-five percent per annum as of June 15! Interest
com
pounded daily! Withdrawals in part or in full ⦠at
any
time! Check-writing privileges â¦
of
course! Bank by wire ⦠available! Call me tonight, toll freeâthe Reverend Bob Lee Boyd. Gospel Money Market Fund, incorporatedâand wake up to
mor
row ⦠on the
side
⦠of the Angels ! This is not an offering, which can be made by formal prospectus only.”
wicked
and
slothful ser
vant! Thou
knw
est that I reap where I sowed not and gather where I have not strewed. Thou oughtest therefore to have put my money to the exchangers, and then at my coming I should have received my
own
â¦
with interest!
' Now, friends, if you've got your money lying around in a passbook savings account down at the bank â¦
you
⦠are like that
wicked ser
vant!
You
⦠have got your
gold ⦠stuck
in the
ground!
Wouldn't you rather be able to answer, in the Final Hour, when the Last Questions are asked: âOh, yes, Lord! I took
my gold
â¦
out
of the passbook savings account! I put
my gold
⦠into the Gospel Money Market Fund! Fourteen-point-five percent per annum as of June 15! Interest
com
pounded daily! Withdrawals in part or in full ⦠at
any
time! Check-writing privileges â¦
of
course! Bank by wire ⦠available! Call me tonight, toll freeâthe Reverend Bob Lee Boyd. Gospel Money Market Fund, incorporatedâand wake up to
mor
row ⦠on the
side
⦠of the Angels ! This is not an offering, which can be made by formal prospectus only.”
T
he trainer said, “Take your finger off the repress button.” Everybody was supposed to let go, let all the vile stuff come up and gush out. They even provided vomit bags, like the ones on a 747, in case you literally let it
gush out
! Then the trainer told everybody to think of “the one thing you would most like to eliminate from your life.” And so what does our girl blurt over the microphone?
he trainer said, “Take your finger off the repress button.” Everybody was supposed to let go, let all the vile stuff come up and gush out. They even provided vomit bags, like the ones on a 747, in case you literally let it
gush out
! Then the trainer told everybody to think of “the one thing you would most like to eliminate from your life.” And so what does our girl blurt over the microphone?
“Hemorrhoids!”
Just so!
That was how she ended up in her present state ⦠stretched out on the wall-to-wall carpet of a banquet hall in the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles with her eyes closed and her face pressed into the stubble of the carpet, which is a thick commercial weave and feels like clothesbrush bristles against her face and smells a bit
high
from cleaning solvent. That was how she ended up lying here concentrating on her hemorrhoids.
high
from cleaning solvent. That was how she ended up lying here concentrating on her hemorrhoids.
Eyes shut! deep in her own space! her hemorrhoids! the grisly peanutâ
Many others are stretched out on the carpet all around her; some 249 other souls, in fact. They're all strewn across the floor of the banquet hall with their eyes closed, just as she is. But, Christ, the others are concentrating on things that sound serious and deep when you talk about them. And how they had talked about them! They had
all marched right up to the microphone and “shared,” as the trainer called it. What did they want to eliminate from their lives? Why, they took their fingers right off the old repress button and told the whole room. My husband! my wife! my homosexuality! my inability to communicate, my self-hatred, self-destructiveness, craven fears, puling weaknesses, primordial horrors, premature ejaculation, impotence, frigidity, rigidity, subservience, laziness, alcoholism, major vices, minor vices, grim habits, twisted psyches, tortured soulsâand then it had been her turn, and she had said, “Hemorrhoids.”
all marched right up to the microphone and “shared,” as the trainer called it. What did they want to eliminate from their lives? Why, they took their fingers right off the old repress button and told the whole room. My husband! my wife! my homosexuality! my inability to communicate, my self-hatred, self-destructiveness, craven fears, puling weaknesses, primordial horrors, premature ejaculation, impotence, frigidity, rigidity, subservience, laziness, alcoholism, major vices, minor vices, grim habits, twisted psyches, tortured soulsâand then it had been her turn, and she had said, “Hemorrhoids.”
You can imagine what that sounded like. That broke the place up. The trainer looked like a cocky little bastard up there on the podium, with his deep tan, white tennis shirt, and peach-colored sweater, a dynamite color combination, all very casual and spontaneousâafter about two hours of trying on different outfits in front of a mirror, that kind of casual and spontaneous, if her guess was right. And yet she found him attractive.
Commanding
was the word. He probably wondered if she was playing the wiseacre, with her “hemorrhoids,” but he rolled with it. Maybe she was being playful. Just looking at him made her feel mischievous. In any event,
hemorrhoids
was what had bubbled up into her brain.
Commanding
was the word. He probably wondered if she was playing the wiseacre, with her “hemorrhoids,” but he rolled with it. Maybe she was being playful. Just looking at him made her feel mischievous. In any event,
hemorrhoids
was what had bubbled up into her brain.
Then the trainer had told them to stack their folding chairs in the back of the banquet hall and lie down on the floor and close their eyes and get deep into their own spaces and concentrate on that one item they wanted to get rid of mostâand really feel it and let the feeling gush out.
So now she's lying here concentrating on her hemorrhoids. The strange thing is ⦠it's no joke after all! She begins to feel her hemorrhoids in all their morbid presence. She can actually
feel
them. The sieges always began with her having the sensation that a peanut was caught in her anal sphincter. That meant a section of swollen varicose vein had pushed its way out of her intestines and was actually coming out of her bottom. It was as hard as a peanut and felt bigger and grislier than a peanut. Wellâfor God's sake!âin her daily life, even at work,
especially
at work, and she works for a movie distributor, her whole picture of herself was of her â¦
seductive physical presence
. She was not the most successful businesswoman in Los Angeles, but she was certainly successful enough, and quite in addition to that, she was ⦠the
main sexual presence in the office.
When she walked into the office each morning, everyone, women as well as men, checked her out. She
knew
that. She could feel her sexual presence go through the place like an invisible chemical, like a hormone, a scent, a universal solvent.
feel
them. The sieges always began with her having the sensation that a peanut was caught in her anal sphincter. That meant a section of swollen varicose vein had pushed its way out of her intestines and was actually coming out of her bottom. It was as hard as a peanut and felt bigger and grislier than a peanut. Wellâfor God's sake!âin her daily life, even at work,
especially
at work, and she works for a movie distributor, her whole picture of herself was of her â¦
seductive physical presence
. She was not the most successful businesswoman in Los Angeles, but she was certainly successful enough, and quite in addition to that, she was ⦠the
main sexual presence in the office.
When she walked into the office each morning, everyone, women as well as men, checked her out. She
knew
that. She could feel her sexual presence go through the place like an invisible chemical, like a hormone, a scent, a universal solvent.
The most beautiful moments came when she was in her office or in a conference room or at Mr. Chow's taking a meetingânobody “had”
meetings any more, they “took” themâwith two or three men, men she had never met before or barely knew. The overt subject was, inevitably, eternally, “the deal.” She always said there should be only one credit line up on the screen for any movie: “Deal by ⦔ But the meeting would also have a subplot. The overt plot would be “The Deal.” The subplot would be “The Men Get Turned On by Me.” Pretty soon, even though the conversation had not strayed overtly from “the deal,” the men would be swaying in unison like dune grass at the beach. And she was the wind, of course. And then one of the men would say something and smile and at the same time reach over and touch her ⦠on top of the hand or on the side of the arm ⦠as if it meant nothing ⦠as if it were just a gesture for emphasis ⦠but, in
fact,
a
man is usually deathly afraid of reaching out and touching a woman he doesn't know â¦
and she knew it meant she had hypnotized him sexually â¦
meetings any more, they “took” themâwith two or three men, men she had never met before or barely knew. The overt subject was, inevitably, eternally, “the deal.” She always said there should be only one credit line up on the screen for any movie: “Deal by ⦔ But the meeting would also have a subplot. The overt plot would be “The Deal.” The subplot would be “The Men Get Turned On by Me.” Pretty soon, even though the conversation had not strayed overtly from “the deal,” the men would be swaying in unison like dune grass at the beach. And she was the wind, of course. And then one of the men would say something and smile and at the same time reach over and touch her ⦠on top of the hand or on the side of the arm ⦠as if it meant nothing ⦠as if it were just a gesture for emphasis ⦠but, in
fact,
a
man is usually deathly afraid of reaching out and touching a woman he doesn't know â¦
and she knew it meant she had hypnotized him sexually â¦
Wellâfor God's sake!âat just that sublime moment, likely as not, the goddamn peanut would be popping out of her tail! As she smiled sublimely at her conquest, she also had to sit in her chair lopsided, with one cheek of her buttocks higher than the other, as if she were about to crepitate, because it hurt to sit squarely on the peanut. If for any reason she had to stand up at that point and walk, she would have to walk as if her hip joints were rusted out, as if she were sixty-five years old, because a normal stride pressed the peanut, and the pain would start up, and the bleeding, too, very likely. Or if she couldn't get up and had to sit there for a while and keep her smile and her hot hormonal squinted eyes pinned on the men before her, the peanut would start itching or burning, and she would start double-tracking, as if her mind were a tape deck with two channels going at once. In one she's the sexual princess, the Circe, taking a meeting and clouding men's minds ⦠and in the other she's a poor bitch who wants nothing more in this world than to go down the corridor to the ladies' room and get some Kleenex and some Vaseline and push the peanut back up into her intestines with her finger.
And even if she's able to get away and do that, she will spend the rest of that day and the next, and the next, with a
deep worry
in the back of her brain, the sort of worry that always stays on the edge of your consciousness, no matter how hard you think of something else. She will be wondering at all times what the next bowel movement will be like, how solid and compact the bolus will be, trying to think back and remember if she's had any milk, cream, chocolate, or any other binding substance in the last twenty-four hours, or any nuts or fibrous vegetables like broccoli. Is she really
in for it
this timeâ
deep worry
in the back of her brain, the sort of worry that always stays on the edge of your consciousness, no matter how hard you think of something else. She will be wondering at all times what the next bowel movement will be like, how solid and compact the bolus will be, trying to think back and remember if she's had any milk, cream, chocolate, or any other binding substance in the last twenty-four hours, or any nuts or fibrous vegetables like broccoli. Is she really
in for it
this timeâ
The Sexual Princess! On the outside she has on her fireproof grin and her Fiorio scarf, as if to say she lives in a world of Sevilles and
45OSL's and dinner last night at Dominick's, a movie business restaurant on Beverly Boulevard that's so exclusive, Dominick keeps his neon sign
(Dominick's)
turned off at night to make the wimps think it's closed, but
she
(Hi, Dominick!) can get a tableâwhile inside her it's all the battle between the bolus and the peanutâ
45OSL's and dinner last night at Dominick's, a movie business restaurant on Beverly Boulevard that's so exclusive, Dominick keeps his neon sign
(Dominick's)
turned off at night to make the wimps think it's closed, but
she
(Hi, Dominick!) can get a tableâwhile inside her it's all the battle between the bolus and the peanutâ
âand is it too late to leave the office and go get some mineral oil and let some of that vile glop roll down her gullet or get a refill on the softener tablets or eat some prunes or drink some coffee or do something else to avoid one of those horrible hard-clay boluses that will come grinding out of her, crushing the peanut and starting not only the bleeding but â¦
the pain!
⦠a horrible humiliating pain that feels like she's getting a paper cut in her anus, like the pain you feel when the edge of a piece of bond paper slices your finger, plus a horrible hellish purple bloody varicose pressure, but lasting not for an instant, like a paper cut, but for an eternity, prolonged until the tears are rolling down her face as she sits in the cubicle, and she wants to cry out, to scream until it's over, to make the screams of fear, fury, and humiliation obliterate the pain. But someone would hear! No doubt they'd come bursting right into the ladies' room to save her! and feed and water their morbid curiosities! And what could she possibly say? And so she had simply held that feeling in all these years, with her eyes on fire and her entire pelvic saddle a great purple tub of pain. She had repressed the whole squalid horror of itâ
the searing peanut
âuntil now. The trainer had said, “Take your finger off the repress button!” Let it gush up and pour out!
the pain!
⦠a horrible humiliating pain that feels like she's getting a paper cut in her anus, like the pain you feel when the edge of a piece of bond paper slices your finger, plus a horrible hellish purple bloody varicose pressure, but lasting not for an instant, like a paper cut, but for an eternity, prolonged until the tears are rolling down her face as she sits in the cubicle, and she wants to cry out, to scream until it's over, to make the screams of fear, fury, and humiliation obliterate the pain. But someone would hear! No doubt they'd come bursting right into the ladies' room to save her! and feed and water their morbid curiosities! And what could she possibly say? And so she had simply held that feeling in all these years, with her eyes on fire and her entire pelvic saddle a great purple tub of pain. She had repressed the whole squalid horror of itâ
the searing peanut
âuntil now. The trainer had said, “Take your finger off the repress button!” Let it gush up and pour out!
And now, as she lies here on the floor of the banquet hall of the Ambassador Hotel with 249 other souls, she knows exactly what he meant. She can feel it
all,
all of the pain, and on top of the pain all the humiliation, and for the first time in her life she has permission from the Management, from herself and everyone around her, to let the feeling gush forth. So she starts moaning.
all,
all of the pain, and on top of the pain all the humiliation, and for the first time in her life she has permission from the Management, from herself and everyone around her, to let the feeling gush forth. So she starts moaning.
“Oooooooooooooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”
And when she starts moaning, the most incredible and exhilarating thing begins to happen. A wave of moans spreads through the people lying around her, as if her energy were radiating out like a radar pulse.
“Ooooooooooooooooooooooohhhhhhhhh!”
So she lets her moan rise into a keening sound.
“Oooooooooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”
And when she begins to keen, the souls near her begin keening, even while the moans are still spreading to the prostrate folks farther from her, on the edges of the room.
“Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeooooooohhhhhhhhhheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeooooooooh!”
So she lets her keening sound rise up into a real scream.
“Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaiaiaiaiaiaiaiaiaiaiaiaiaiaiai!”
And this rolls out in a wave, too, first through those near her, and then toward the far edges.
“Aiaiaiaiaiaiaiaiaiaiaieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeohhhhhhhhheeeeeaiaiai!”
And so she turns it all the way up, into a scream such as she has never allowed herself in her entire life.
“AiaiaiaiaiaiaiaiaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGG-HHHHHH!”
And her full scream spreads from soul to soul, over the top of the keens and fading moansâ
“AAAAAAARRRRRGGGGHHHaiaiaiaiaieeeeeeeeeeoooooohhheeeeeeaiaiaiaiaaaaAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!”
âuntil at last the entire room is consumed in her scream, as if there are no longer 250 separate souls but one noösphere of souls united in some incorporeal way by her screamâ
“AAAAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!”
âwhich is not simply
her
scream any longer ⦠but the world's! Each soul is concentrated on its own burning itemâmy husband! my wife! my homosexuality! my inability to communicate, my self-hatred, self-destruction, craven fears, puling weaknesses, primordial horrors, premature ejaculation, impotence, frigidity, rigidity, subservience, laziness, alcoholism, major vices, minor vices, grim habits, twisted psyches, tortured soulsâand yet each unique item has been raised to a cosmic level and united with every other until there is but one piercing moment of release and liberation at last!âa whole world of anguish set free byâ
her
scream any longer ⦠but the world's! Each soul is concentrated on its own burning itemâmy husband! my wife! my homosexuality! my inability to communicate, my self-hatred, self-destruction, craven fears, puling weaknesses, primordial horrors, premature ejaculation, impotence, frigidity, rigidity, subservience, laziness, alcoholism, major vices, minor vices, grim habits, twisted psyches, tortured soulsâand yet each unique item has been raised to a cosmic level and united with every other until there is but one piercing moment of release and liberation at last!âa whole world of anguish set free byâ
My hemorrhoids.
“Me and My Hemorrhoids Star at the Ambassador” ⦠during a three-day Erhard Seminars Training (est) course in the banquet hall. The truly odd part, however, is yet to come. In her experience lies the explanation of certain grand puzzles of the 1970's, a period that will come to be known as the Me Decade.
In 1972 a farsighted caricaturist did this drawing of Teddy Kennedy, entitled “President Kennedy campaigning for reelection in 1980 ⦠courting the so-called Awakened vote.” The picture shows Kennedy ostentatiously wearing not only a crucifix but also (if one looks just above the cross) a pendant of the Bleeding Heart of Jesus. The crucifix is the symbol of Christianity in general, but the Bleeding Heart is the symbol of some of Christianity's most ecstatic, non-rational,
holy-rolling cults. I should point out that the artist's prediction lacked certain refinements. For one thing, Kennedy may be campaigning to be President in 1980, but he is not terribly likely to be the incumbent. For another, the odd spectacle of politicians using ecstatic, non-rational, holy-rolling religion in Presidential campaigning was to appear first not in 1980 but in 1976.
holy-rolling cults. I should point out that the artist's prediction lacked certain refinements. For one thing, Kennedy may be campaigning to be President in 1980, but he is not terribly likely to be the incumbent. For another, the odd spectacle of politicians using ecstatic, non-rational, holy-rolling religion in Presidential campaigning was to appear first not in 1980 but in 1976.
The two most popular new figures in the 1976 campaign, Jimmy Carter and Jerry Brown, are men who rose up from state politics ⦠absolutely aglow with mystical religious streaks. Carter turned out to be an evangelical Baptist who had recently been “born again” and “saved,” who had “accepted Jesus Christ as my personal Savior”âi.e., he was of the Missionary lectern-pounding Amen ten-finger C-major-chord Sister-Martha-at-the-Yamaha-keyboard loblolly piney-woods Baptist faith in which the members of the congregation stand up and “give witness” and “share it, Brother” and “share it, Sister” and “praise God!” during the service.
o
Jerry Brown turned out to be the Zen Jesuit, a former Jesuit seminarian who went about like a hairshirt Catholic monk, but one who happened to believe also in the Gautama Buddha, and who got off koans in an offhand but confident manner, even on political issues, as to how it is not the right answer that matters but the right question, and so forth.
o
Jerry Brown turned out to be the Zen Jesuit, a former Jesuit seminarian who went about like a hairshirt Catholic monk, but one who happened to believe also in the Gautama Buddha, and who got off koans in an offhand but confident manner, even on political issues, as to how it is not the right answer that matters but the right question, and so forth.
Newspaper columnists and news-magazine writers continually referred to the two men's “enigmatic appeal.” Which is to say, they couldn't explain it. Nevertheless, they tried. They theorized that the war in Vietnam, Watergate, the FBI and CIA scandals, had left the electorate shell-shocked and disillusioned and that in their despair the citizens were groping no longer for specific remedies but for sheer faith, something, anything (even holy rolling), to believe in. This was in keeping with the current fashion of interpreting all new political phenomena in terms of recent disasters, frustration, protest, the decline of civilization ⦠the Grim Slide. But when
The New York Times
and CBS employed a polling organization to try to find out just what great gusher of “frustration” and “protest” Carter had hit, the results were baffling. A Harvard political scientist, William Schneider,
concluded for the Los Angeles
Times
that “the Carter protest” was a new kind of protest, “a protest of good feelings.” That was a new kind, sure enough: a protest that wasn't a protest.
The New York Times
and CBS employed a polling organization to try to find out just what great gusher of “frustration” and “protest” Carter had hit, the results were baffling. A Harvard political scientist, William Schneider,
concluded for the Los Angeles
Times
that “the Carter protest” was a new kind of protest, “a protest of good feelings.” That was a new kind, sure enough: a protest that wasn't a protest.
In fact, both Carter and Brown had stumbled upon a fabulous terrain for which there are no words in current political language. A couple of politicians had finally wandered into the Me Decade.
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